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“Then I agree.”
I detest the satisfied smile that spreads across his face.
“I’ll have my lawyers—”
“I agree,” I repeat, “for Grey House and two million dollars, payable before the wedding.”
The smile disappears. Any satisfaction I would have derived from it is eclipsed by the icy cold that stills his features. I can feel the disapproval emanating from him as much as I can feel the renewed wind sweeping up from the sea.
“Everyone has their price.” He cocks his head to the side. “I didn’t expect yours to be so mercenary.”
I think of Grey House. I think of Dessie sitting on the patio in the summer with a raised garden bed that will accommodate her wheelchair if her prognosis worsens. I think of turning the empty guest bedroom into an office where I can work. Of not having to worry about money ever again, no matter what hurdles Dessie’s condition may throw in our path.
These are the thoughts that keep me from smacking the judgmental look off Gavriil Drakos’s handsome face. He may not be a criminal like his father. But he is a selfish creature who has no problems enjoying his own wealth even as he judges others for wanting a better life for themselves and the ones they love.
“Do we have a deal?”
He stares at me for one long second before nodding. I stick out my hand.
“Oh, no.” His eyes gleam. “A deal of this magnitude requires something more than a handshake.”
He flips the lid open on the ring box and takes the ring out before he grabs my left hand. I freeze as his fingertips warm my skin, barely hold back a shiver as he slides the ring on. It’s cold. Feels more like a shackle than the most expensive piece of jewelry I’ve ever worn.
“What happens now?” I ask as I cross my arms over my chest.
“Now you plan the wedding of the century.”
My jaw drops.
“What?”
“We have to convince the world that, after years of acrimony, we’re suddenly in love and desperate to get married.”
My brilliant idea now sounds brilliantly stupid as I stare at the man I’ve just bound myself to for a year. I thought we’d take care of this quickly and quietly: a simple ceremony, sign our names, then live out the rest of our sentence separately.
“Why not just go to the courthouse—”
“No.”
“Why not?” I ask, not bothering to hide the frustration from my voice.
“It’s not my style.”
“What if it’s mine?”
“My offer, my rules. Two,” he continues, his voice hardening, “there is to be no hint, not even a whisper, of the real reason for our wedding.”
“I take it I’ll be signing more than just a marriage license,” I reply dryly.
“An ironclad nondisclosure with the condition you’ll forfeit anything I grant you if you end the marriage early or tell anyone about the will.”
“What if I pinky promise?”
The brooding scowl disappears as he throws his head back and laughs. A deep, rich laugh that makes my skin tingle with the pleasantness of the sound.
“I don’t think that counts as legally binding.”
I sigh and wrap my arms tighter around myself, partly to ward off the lingering chill and partly to comfort myself.